The Punk and the Poltergeist
by Steal Beating Heart
Summary: Set about 5 and a half years after the film little Lydia is not quite so little any more. What will happen when she returns to her child hood home to find the ghost with the most waiting for her so he can make another deal.
1. Going Home

_**Ok Boils and Girls this is my first chapter of my Beetlejuice Fan fiction yay. I grew up with the cartoons as a kid and i fell in love with the film later on but i still adore both. With that in mind this is kind of a mix between the cartoon and the film but mainly the film. I hope you enjoy it, please feel free to comment and review. **_

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><p>It had been a long time since Lydia Deetz had visited the quiet slice of suburbia known as Winter River. Five years since she had last stepped foot in the sleepy little town and for a good reason it was because of <em>Him<em> or rather the memory of him. He had in fact been swallowed up by a sand worm never to be seen again. Yet when ever night drew in along the eves of the old house she could swear she could hear a voice whispering her name along the wind. She could hear cackling in the walls late at night, a deep, manic unforgettable laugh that caused her to go as stiff as a board as a chill ran down her spine.

There had been something about the man that was so inexcusably vile and repugnant; that those of a weak constitution had been known to lose their lunch at the mere sight of him. If the rather distinctive black and white striped suit, caked with literally century's worth of dirt, blood and other more unspeakable stains didn't do the job then the smell certainly did. His lifeless breath could peel paint of the walls let alone the rest of him. It made her shudder as she remembered the sight of his rotting teeth, black with puss and bugs oozing out from between the gums. Not exactly a sight one would forget but not exactly one she wanted to remember either.

That was why she had left, to try and forget. Being in that house bought it all back, wave upon wave and day upon day. The stair case was the worst. She remembered how 'he' had turned himself into a snake in order to torment her family. She remembered how he had cackled with malice in his voice, telling her father "_We've come for your daughter Chuck"_ before fixing his gaze on her. It sickened her to remember how he had fixed her with a terrifyingly haunting and hungry look that reminded her of a wolf eyeing up a lost little lamb, luring it away to become its supper. His tale had rattled angrily as a forked tongue darted out of his lips in order to lick her face. Just in time Barbra had called his name, making the ghoulish snake disappear. The whole incident had made Lydia physically sick and she still recalled it in her nightmares all these years later.

She had to move out for her own sake being in that house wasn't good for her. The whole house was a museum of that terrible night of the dinner party. She couldn't set foot in the dining room or the living room for that matter without feeling sick even though Delia had redecorated and got a new table. In the end there had only been one choice in her mind, she had to move out or she would go insane.

She told Adam and Barbra that she was moving out because of her photography career and opportunities only the big city could provide. She didn't dare tell them the real reason she needed to move. How could she it was their house after all, their home and they had always made her feel welcome. So how could she possibly tell them that being in _their_ house made her sick to her stomach, or that she was in constant fear of what he would do to her if he got out... no not if, when!

After all it was only a matter of time and the self proclaimed 'Ghost with the most' came back for revenge. He was deviously crafty, ignoring all rules and regulations that got in his way, breaking reality as she knew it with a simple click of his blood stained fingers. Well all but one rule, the most important one of all. He couldn't exist in the mortal realm on his own and in order to gain corporeal form someone had to say his name three times. Why three times she wasn't sure but after that he would be free to 'let the juice loose' however he liked. She remembered all too vividly how in the naivety of childhood she had summoned him thinking he would be able to help her.

He did the exact opposite of helping; he had made her family's life a living hell and he seemed to take extreme pleasure out of haunting her in particular. He had taken a perverse pleasure in tormenting her, being almost sweet to her one moment before being intolerably vile the next. She grimaced as she remembered the first time she had seen him 'in the flesh' so to speak. She had seen him manifest himself quite a few times at this point but he was still a ghost and nothing could hurt him. It wasn't until he had tried to force her to marry him. She shuddered at the thought of how his dead, scaly hand had clamped down over her mouth as he threw his voice for the "I Do's" making her feel like a human ventriloquists doll. She felt a sickening pang in her stomach as she remembered every detail of how her very late ex-fiancé had been swallowed up by a sand worm. "Karma is a bitch babe" she muttered to herself at the memory with a slight chuckle as her motorbike speed up the old dusty track to her home.

The house truly belonged to Barbra and Adam, they had built it themselves but as they were now devoid of any heart beat to speak of the house legally belonged to her parents. However they had moved out over four and a half years ago as Delia had claimed that it was stifling her creativity. When in reality she just wanted to forget that they had ever lived in that little cesspool of a house. It had been Lydia's choice to leave the house the year after her parents. Though Adam and Barbra were wonderful and had shown her more love and understanding that her own parents she still felt suffocated. She flew the coop and never really looked back, leaving the two ghost's narrow-minded ways had been the best thing she had ever done. Now she worked in the city as the head photographer of a world renowned Tattoo magazine.

It was just her scene full of beautiful dark art work, bizarre piercings and pictures along with a general rock and roll, punk attitude that felt she had been born for. Both of her ears were lined with small rings that trailed from the lobe to the very top of the cartilage. Along with a small lip stud that sat just below her bottom lip on the very left. That wasn't all; her liberating new life had lead her to get herself 'inked' by a client. She had designed the piece herself each line and curve holding just as much meaning as the last. She had caught the ink 'itch' after that and now she wore several pieces proudly on her skin.

As her bike speed up the drive she could have sworn she had seen a face at the window of the attic. A pair of emerald green eyes peered over the peeling paint of the window sill. But from the outside all Lydia could really see were tufts of dirty blond hair that seemed to be stained with a strange green substance. _"That's strange"_ she thought to herself knowing for a fact that Barbra and Adam had sealed up the attic a few years ago 'just in case' and now there only way one could get inside was to scale the side of the house. Yet there was no window ledge for someone to climb and there was no access from the roof some it was impossible for anyone to get up there. She dismissed it as just a trick of the light and revved the engine of her bike a little, the noise reminding her of what was real. She knew very will that the house was empty and had been for well over a month. No ghosts wondered the halls anymore and the house was silent for the first time in years.

Adam and Barbra had moved out deciding that they were going to spend the rest of their afterlife exploring the netherworld, 'retirement' they called it. "_Could ghosts retire?"_ Lydia pondered to herself. As far as she knew her ghostly surrogate parents were stuck in that house to live out the rest of their 'later days'. She had tried to coax an explanation out of Barbra, in the end she just put it down to some netherworld politics bullshit and left it at that. After all if you got a second chance would you spend your new 'un-life' pining for the old one? Of course not and that is why they had decided to as Barbra had put it 'move on to greener pastures'. They all thought it best if they save the goodbyes; a tearful farewell was the last thing anyone wanted. Instead the ghostly pair has simply packed up and left in the middle of the night after informing Lydia that the house now belonged to her.

That was why she was here, in the desolate little town where times seemed to stop. At first she had been glad that the Matalan's had gone on to live a little bit recklessly after being so timid and cautious in life. Yet she couldn't help but miss them, the Soft motherly tones of Barbra's voice or the kind gentle way Adam looked at her, like she was their own daughter and needed to be protected. It was strange but the pair seemed to smell ever so slightly of dust and stale air but she just figured that was because they were dead. Ever since the Matalan's had 'move on' Lydia found herself thinking about that god forsaken house more and more. She found herself lying awake at night worrying about what could happen it now that it was lying so empty. It was a niggling feeling at the back of her mind as annoying as an itch that wouldn't go away and it refused to let up even when she dreamt about going back to the old house and living there once again. She became obsessed with the idea about going back to the house that she even began thinking about it at work and ended up losing a few clients because of it. In the end there was only one logical choice, she had to go back. The house was hers now, it was empty and silent and hers. She could change it however she liked, put in new furniture, knock down a few walls anything to make the house feel like new. She knew it would take more than a lick of paint to heal the ugly scars marring this house in her memory but she was willing to put in the work and she was confident that she would learn to love the house again and forget the awful memories that the house contained.


	2. Freedom at last?

_**Ok this is chapter two of my little fan fic. I hope you all like it and I hope it actually makes sense as I am a little feverish as I write this. I shall be upping the rating for this story to mature just because it's more fun that way and I can say whatever I want **__**and less face it censorship doesn't really go with Beetlejuice's personality. I prefer him to be his rude, crude self because that's why we love him. Anyway I hope you enjoy it and please review. **_

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><p>I am not sure if any of you in the land of the living have been through the digestive track of a sand worm but it is not a pleasant experience to say the least and not one I would recommend. Eve our self proclaimed 'Ghost with the most' found it a bit hard to cope with after the beast had crashed his wedding and swallowed him whole. He had been trapped there in the festering belly of the beast for four years without relieve. He tried to escape by the conventional means and even some more unconventional ones; after all they don't call him the 'ghost with the most' for nothing. He did his best to slowly poison the beast from the inside out as he sat in his fleshy prison but he was weak. Being eaten by a sand worm wasn't fatal how could it be, he was already dead after all but it did havoc to his powers it messed with them dulling their affect on the living until he could hardly conjure up a beetle for him to munch on let alone escape. Yet he had all the time in the world and slowly very slowly his escape plan into action bit by bit until one day he was free to exercise his revenge on the land of the living.<p>

You see every day he had sat there he came up with new plan on how he was going to kill 'that little bitch Lydia' and her two pet ghosts. He took immense pleasure imagining the little brat crying as he killed her parents and exorcised the ghosts of the Maitland's forever before he would turn his attention on her. All the waiting would be worth it the instant he got his hand on that little Goth bitch so he could make her scream and cry in pain. Yet things weren't as simple as they may have seemed yes he wanted to make Lydia suffer the most out of everyone but his motives were twisted inside his brain. Sometimes he imagined listening to Lydia's strangled cries as the lights die in her eyes as she moved on from the land of the living. Other times he imagined making her scream and moan as he used and abused the Goth girl for as much as he wanted before he eventually killed her. He certainly enjoyed think about all the different ways he could make little Deetz scream.

Sure she had been no more than a child, perhaps 16 at the oldest the last time he had seen her but that didn't stop him talking about the tasty piece of jail bait. He was the 'ghost with the fucking most' for god sake and he could do what he liked to the little Goth whore and all cards would be off the table if he could get her to say his name then she would be his for the taking.

If she let him out then none of the netherworld rules could touch him especially if he married the little bitch before he showed his true colours. Then not only would he have a free pass to the land of the living but a warm willing body for him to take whenever he pleased. He liked this plan more and more each time he thought about the things he could do to her. he began to feel the all too familiar itch radiate deep within his necrotic loins that could only signal one thing. Usually he would have gone to one of the netherworld's many cat houses 'to get a little action' but that only appeased the itch for so long and did nothing for the ache. It was an ache deep within that longed for the brush of fingertips against his cold skin or the define caress of a lovers kiss. Real physical contact that's what he wanted that's what he needed. Sure whores were good for a ride or two but it wasn't what you would call real intimacy and that is what he craved.

They did their part, smiling and bouncing their dead little silicon tits but when it came down to it there was no spark. Even the hookers had their rules, they couldn't or rather wouldn't kiss him and most of them refused to look him in the eye. Yet it was worse when they did look at him, their eyes fill with nothing but hatred and disgust for the man, for his teeth, his demeanour, his stench. They hated him but still went through the motions of grinding on his dead prick for a few hundred dollars and a drink. God most of them only exerted enough movement to get job done before they would order him away so they could cleanup in order to entertain the next in a long line of "john's". It was a risky business going to the otherworldly brothels though ghosts were immune to most venereal diseases crabs were a real problem. Now that was an itch that would never go away, the undead buggers would stay with a ghost for centuries.

He scratched his crotch absentmindedly and smiled as it produced a muffled by none the less comedic 'honk' sound. "When the hell did that get there?" he mused to himself his blood stained fingertips diving into the never-ending depth of his pants pockets before producing an old car horn. He squeezed it twice for good measure, a small chuckle reverberating deep within his throat before throwing the horn over his shoulder. His little visits to the houses of sin were fun while they lasted but did not to quench the ever present burning in his neither regions, though it did quell it for a while. He felt always felt disgusted with himself, that he had used to worn out hussies and even more disgusted at the fact that the cheep imitation of the flesh hadn't worked. His need for intimacy coming back stronger each time clouding his mind and making his head literally spin with rage. What had he done to disserve this never ending torment?

Ok trick question, he had earned his damnation at least a few thousand times even before he had left the land of the living yet he still though it unfair. He had been cheated out of happiness, cheated out of the sweet freedom he had hoped death would bring him. There was no comfort, no joy not even in the moment of his release spurred on by the whores 'encouraging' groans he felt nothing. Just the same dull ache for a warm willing body beneath his that would bend beneath his will and plaster fever riddled kisses along his jaw. He had learnt this lesson quite early in his afterlife and this soul crushing fact had inevitably left him, bitter, twisted and irrevocably insane. Making him wish to stamp out happiness, passion and life where ever he saw it and he saw it painfully clear in the breathers. That is why he had become a 'bio-exorcist' taking a malicious pleasure in tormenting and sometimes killing the living representations of what he had lost.

The moment he had become free from that infernal snake he went to the house so he could implement his depraved plan on the poor girl but he found the house to be empty. Well at least he had thought it had been empty, little did he know that it had been a trap. Juno and the Maitland's had spent the last four years planning and they had come up with a plan of bind him to something permanently so they could destroy him. The only problem with that was the object had to belong to someone who was of flesh and blood, in other words still alive. This meant that everything of the Maitland's was out of the question and all that was left was the old full length mirror in Lydia's room. They had wanted something more solid to bind him into, perhaps a book or something like that but it had been the only thing left in the house so it would do. Soon Beetlejuice found himself living in yet another prison though this one wasn't made of flesh but glass instead. It was just as infuriating as the last time but he already had a plan in place to get free. He had found a little loop whole in Juno's little spell and if the person who owned the mirror wished him free then he could escape the prison of glass. But it would be only temporary; he had much bigger things in mind rather than just some shitty little day pass. He wanted to be free forever and for that he would need to bring out the big guns so to speak. You see if the person that owned the mirror fell in love with him then he would be free from his prison to exact his revenge and as it just so happens the mirror belonged to little Lydia. Things couldn't be more perfect and Beetlejuice couldn't help but grin at the thought of all the things he had in store for poor clueless Lydia.


	3. That Restless kind of feeling

_**Hello my lovely's i am so very sorry this update has taken me so long i have been very sick since i last posted. I have an immune disorder anyway which leaves me unable to walk and i am in a state of constant exhaustion (so i sleep a hell of a lot). Now i have also been diagnosed with being Bipolar as well. All in all i have a hell of a lot on my plate, i have been on the verge of hospitalization many times and so i have been unable to write a thing.  
>However here is the second half of the chapter of the chapter i owe everyone. Thank you for the reviews it's always appreciated and feel free to bug me about writing the next chapter, sometimes i need a little nagging.<br>Anyway enjoy and i send my apologies for making you all wait. **_

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><p>Months passed since Lydia Deetz had moved back into the old house on the hill that had been her childhood home. Not that you would recognize it now, the rather garish floral country style décor was nowhere to be found. Even her step mother Delia's monstrous taste in sculpted furniture had been banished from the house leaving it a blank slate for Lydia's artistic side to run wild.<p>

She had converted the house into an art studio of sorts; the basement had been turned into a dark room for when she needed to develop her photos and the other rooms in the house had also been changed to suit her new life style. The so called 'living room' had been turned into a model scene of a graveyard as she thought it was too ironic an opportunity to miss and she had painted a sign on the door which read 'The Living Dead Room'. The irony was even greater due to the fact that this had been the Matalan's favourite room in the house (besides the attic). It was also one of Lydia's favourite rooms in the house along with her bedroom which was relatively the same as it had been as a child, though now it was filled with 'grownup' things. Macabre art work lined the walls, giving the place a feel of dark elegance as if it belonged to a vamperic royal.

Yet Lydia soon began to forget why she had ever felt scared of the charming old house. The aged walls held a comforting warmth within its crumbling wall that made it strangely inviting as if it had been calling her name. She hadn't been able to resist its call for long as it was in a word 'homely'. Though she had changed many aspects of the house she still felt as if there was something missing, something that used to be there when she was a kid and wasn't there now. It had been a strange crackle of energy which could only be compared to lighting a match in a firework factory and staying to watch the utter chaos that ensued. Now, without it the house felt flat and lifeless as if someone has pulled the plug on the life support leaving Lydia with the awful feeling that she was for the first time in her life, truly living with the dead. Of course she had lived with ghosts quite happily for years but they had been always been quite animated individuals considering that they were somewhat living impaired. The hallways had always echoed with Barbra's almost musical laughter and the sound of gentle, slightly out of tune humming as Adam worked on one of his toy models. Every now and then the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by a scream as Delia unveiled her latest monstrosity if a sculpture but the constant changing ambience was what had made the place so special. Now it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi that no matter how hard she tried it could never be replicated. Especially now the hallways and large echoing rooms of the hose were silent, as if someone had muted the house's beautiful crescendo, with only the humming of the fridge and the slow clicks of Lydia's heels as she walked across the bare wooden floors to break the unbearable silence.

Of course she had attempted to liven things up with the occasional party and though her bizarre photo shoots did add a little glow of excitement to the place. It fizzled out all too soon like a sparkler dropped into a bucket of water. Once the drunken stragglers had made their way home in the dim morning light, muttering slurred goodbye's as they stumbled back down the hill, Lydia found herself alone again in the house. This time there would be no soft laughter to great her as she bounced her way drunkenly up to the attic, to be scolded and tutted at before being tucked lovingly into bed. Now if she ventured up those twisted stairs all she would be greeted by were piles of lonely dust sheets and empty paint pots so old that even the vapours have upped and left. The strange static energy that had once crackled through the house like a living pulse was noticeably missing and to Lydia it felt almost as if the house itself had died.

A restless feeling took hold of her and it only got worse as the year went on and the house remained silent and still. The sense of anxiety only increased to a maddening level until it became an itch festering in Lydia's brain. At times she wished that she could saw open up her skull like she had seen in the more macabre cartoons of a childhood. She could just imagine it, her fingers eagerly diving into the slimy grey matter to scratch the evil itch residing deep within her brain. Yes she liked that idea, the thought of all the blood and puss really did it for her even if it was her own. Though the thought of a bit of DIY brain surgery was incredibly tempting it wasn't exactly practical and so she quickly put that idea to bed. Oh she knew what needed to be done, whenever she started to feel herself slipping back into the haze of depression she needed to do something bizarre and unusual. Only this would break the cycle of self destruction and remind her just how much she liked being in the land of the living. All she needed to do was find a project to distract her and soon enough she would become so focused on what she was doing that all thoughts of becoming a resident in the neither world evaporated.

Lydia found her project soon enough one rather miserable weekend, when the rain rapped against the window making it sounds as if a small spider were tap dancing against the glass. She loved days like these, she wasn't sure quite why but there was something almost magical about them. The way the rain smelt as it mixed with the dirt as she trudged along purposely getting soaked to her skin. She found the frozen water amazing thrilling about as it stole all the warmth from her skin. It was comforting and arousing at the same time, for some reason it made her mind go into over drive until she was plagued by strangely sensual thought. Oh how they tormented her and now matter how hard she tried to visualise her mysterious lover no images were produced just the same feeling. The carnal pleasure of a hand bringing a cold shiver up her spine before a pair of frozen lips hungrily caressed her neck. When those thought started to occur she quickly scarpered back inside to get changed into warm, dry clothes and thought she was warm soon enough she was still left with that haunting impression upon her skin.  
>Today however she decided to skip her usual rain walk as there was a thunder storm rolling in and with the amount of silver jewellery she wore she would be something of a lightning rod. <em>"Is silver even conductive"? <em>Lydia asked herself as she busied herself about the house trying to take her mind off the upcoming storm. She sorted out various boxes containing old clothes and more specifically her winter wardrobe that she hadn't been bothered to unpack after the move. It had been late spring when she had moved in so she had seen no need to clutter up the wardrobe with unnecessaries. Now however there was an undeniable chill in the air and she knew she would need it soon. Unpacking said boxes, she began sorting through them only to find that she desperately needed to sort through her wardrobe. Sighing she began throwing clothes on the bed deciding that they constituted what would essentially be the 'keep' pile where as the floor seemed to be the 'heap' pile. It was only as she got about half way through sorting the various garments that she realised that she still had her teenage clothes. It really should have been obvious from the start as they were taking up over a third of the small walk in wardrobe, the cheap often scratchy material were a far cry to the clothes she now fashioned herself in. Now they were soft and elegant, consisting mainly of corsets, skirts, dresses and obscure designer pieces which were quite simply to die for. Though her new style and clothes were a lot richer in taste they were still of a similar in certain ways, dark and all together gothic. Though her new clothes tended to be more eye catching, Filled with unusual designs and slightly more colour they had more of a punk rock feel to them where as her previous style was a lot closer to gothic Lolita.

She took out one particular dress and couldn't help but chuckle at it with amusement, the sordid little number had been one of her favourites just because it pissed off Delia. Alright not just because it pissed off Delia, though that helped quite a lot to secure it among one of her favourites. The garment had in fact been made by mother, her biological one. Delia was hardly what Lydia would call 'the mothering' type as the woman was as baron and harsh as the deepest crater of the sun. Hell the woman couldn't even keep any plant alive more than a week, it was as if here mere presence made them wither and die. What chance would a human child have with harpy of a woman, who hardly compared to the loving warmth her real mother had radiated. She missed her mother more than anything, it was a hurt never went away though it wasn't as painful as it had once been. The pain in her heart whenever she thought of her mother's infectious cackle of a laugh, or her slightly crooked smile, had lessened over the years into something of a dull ache. It would never leave her, she knew that and it had shaped who she was today. Without it she honestly didn't know who she would be, certainly different. She certainly wouldn't be living here of all places, she would have been living in the city. Perhaps high in a gleaming silver apartment block that seemed to touch the sky, just like the one from her childhood.

She began to feel a dull, draining pang somewhere deep inside her, which she quickly pushed aside. There was no point in pining in things that might or could have been. It was that kind of thinking that would make her loose it for good, she realised that as she looked back down at the simple black dress in her hands and instantly knew couldn't bear to part with it. Yes it was probably too small for her now, even though it has been more of a loose smock costume dress when her mother had created it. The dress had trailed on the floor all through what she liked to call her 'squirt' years. She had shot up like a beanpole since then and filled out in several areas since then, mainly her bust more than anything else. Sometimes she found herself wondering if the damned twins who she had affectionately named 'Morticia' and 'Wednesday' would ever stop growing as it felt like she spent an inexcusable chunk of her pay check constantly going bra shopping.

Her fingertips caressed the delicate, fairy size stitches along the hems of the black shimmery organza her mother had lovingly stitched over the plain red material. The netting itself was rather unspectacular until you traced the netting along the left side of the dress where a ghastly looking but perfectly stitched murder of jet black crows flew across the fabric. At first glance it looks as if the crows were in the air but upon closer inspection it was evident that they were caught in a colossal spider's web that was spun in the most delicate silver that it looked almost real. Beneath the collar of the garment sat a black widow spider, her body fat and round from feasting on the ironic murder trapped in her web. Her crimson hour glass stood out particularly well against her spindly black body, highlighted by the red underlay that had been weathered by many a year to a dusky plum. The garment was delightfully morbid and dramatic just like her mother had been. The woman had possessed an elegance and natural grace which made even the tiniest action look précised and somewhat reminded her of how royalty would act in public. Evey movement a deliberate act; a carefully calculated move in a chess game played with a grace that only hours of etiquette training could teach. There really had been something magical about the way her mother had moved, so smooth and dainty that she looked if she were gliding even in the most deadly of heels.

"Keep" Lydia thought to herself carefully putting the garment into the keep pile. She would try it on later and even if it didn't fit her any more she would never part with it, who knows one day she could even be giving said deliciously dark dress to a daughter of her own. She stopped and quite literally laughed out loud at the absurdity of that thought, her a mother never. For one she would make a lousy parent as she had literally no maternal instincts when it came to human children, animals and bugs on the other hand she felt quite a strongly for. Another very valid reason why the very idea of her becoming a mother was laughable was her state of being 'unattached and fancy free' as her father liked to call it. She seemed to be permanently between boyfriends at the moment, not that she hadn't tried, she really had but they were never right for her. They were either always too hung up and self absorbed with themselves or reeked of desperation, unfortunately sometimes this was quite literal. The few dates she had gone on over the years were flat and unproductive, having the amount of sexual allure of a deep sea sponge. They had been mainly Delia's doing though her dad hadn't exactly helped in the matter. A date every few years and then awful woman would pretty much leave Lydia to her own devices of which she was glad of. She sighed to herself, raking her hand through the loose curls of her deep ebony hair. At least she didn't have to worry about another date any time soon and that was a weight off her mind. She hated having to make awkward small talk with a stranger who either hated being here as much as she did or was a just a tad too eager for her liking. She quickly put all thoughts of Delia's disastrous attempts at match making out of her mind as she shifted her focused back onto the contents of her wardrobe.

"Oh hello what's this?" Lydia asked herself as she caught a glimpse of something strange hidden at the back of her wardrobe, nestled neatly behind the overflowing clothes rail. Yes there was defiantly something there, a flash of dark silver hidden behind her mountain of clothes. She hastily pushed the remaining railed clothes out the way and reached up blindly to turn on the wardrobe light. She didn't dare take her eyes of the thing just in case she lost it under the clothes again and forgot about it. Instead her fingertips groped the air franticly before tangling with the metallic cord; pulling gently until a small light bulb somewhere inside the wardrobe turned itself on with a metallic ping. "Oh my god I thought this had been thrown out years ago" Lydia exclaimed pushing a pile of clothes off the obscured object to reveal that it was in fact a beautiful black and silver French style dressing table. It was the one that had belonged to her mother years ago. She knew Delia hated the constant reminder of her husband's previous and late wife and Lydia had always presumed that Delia would have 'conveniently' forgotten it when they moved. Either that or she had chopped it into pieces and made it into one of her disgusting creations claiming that it was 'art'. It was never art with that woman, art was supposed to be beautiful, thought provoking and poignant. Whereas Delia's 'Art' was more a butchery than anything else and left the viewer feeling slightly confused as to why they has just waited valuable seconds on whatever the indescribable thing was. Thankfully though the prised dressing table had been saved from her stepmothers claws and instead hidden away safely where she would never find it. "Nice one. Way to go dad" Lydia muttered to herself as she grabbed hold of one side of the table and pulled. Luckily the thing was empty and so was surprisingly light as it slit across the floor with a loud scraping sound as the metal based feet fought against the wooden floor and won.

It was just as beautiful as it had been when she last laid eyes upon it. In fact it actually looked better than she remembered, if not a little bit smaller. Her fingertips traced the wooden moulding of the elegant table which were beautifully intact if not slightly distressed by the years of neglect. It actually looked quite good on the table which had been clean cut lines of immaculately varnish and paint. Now however it was beautifully aged and had a character that was uniquely its own. The once bright white finish had yellowed until it became a beautiful aged cream. This was proof that her mother had immaculate taste in furniture. She had really been ahead of her time style wise as the dresser would now be called 'shabby chic' and Lydia believed that it was the 'in' style for home accessories at the moment. Well that is what she gathered from the handful of conversations she had endured with her step mother talking _at _her rather than too her. She tended to zone out and think of ink and photography though she did remember zoning back in when she heard about shabby chic and the whole upcycling movement. It was quite ironic that Delia was so excited about something that recycled what she perceived to be useless junk.

Lydia smoothed her fingers over the ornately carved table and couldn't help but draw comparison to some enchanted piece of furniture in an old story book. It was stunning; each curve of the beautiful, dark wood was sanded to perfection until it was so smooth under the touch you would think it was made of stone. The elegant dresser was quite unlike the monstrosity of a dresser her stepmother possessed. She remembered spending hours, watching her mother sit at that table, applying her different powders and perfumes until she had looked the very picture of an exotic and dark queen. That is what she had thought her mother was in the naivety of a child's fantasy and of course Lydia had been the princess in said fantasy but she had been somewhat fascinated with mother at the time. No matter how much or how little time her mother spent getting dressed she always looked stunning even in her pyjama's, rocking full on bed head the woman had looked perfect. Especially in the reflection of the mirror, it somehow made everything look strangely real. She remembered her mother referring to it as her 'magic mirror' once or twice no doubt to humour her young daughter's fantasies. Now that she thought about it where was the mirror? There was a distinct lack of glass to the frame and now she looked at it the thing seemed a bit bare and lacking in personality.

"It's probably here somewhere" Lydia muttered as she dived back into the closet. Clothes flew out of the closet in no particular order as she searched the claustrophobic space for the slightest trace of shimmering silver. After several minutes of furious looking she flopped down onto the crumpled pile of clothes, letting out a sigh of exacerbation. After going through all the effort of hiding the bulk of the dressing table from his current wife Charles was unlikely to throw away the focal point of the entire piece. _"Unless"_ Lydia thought _"Delia had caught him in the act"_ she knew that this would have resulted in just one thing. Delia making it out as if he was cheating on her in a 'metaphorical way' or some shit like that, giving the man only one option. Smash the mirror into a thousand tiny pieces, in front of his somewhat vindictive spouse. The thought of this made Lydia's mouth feel strangely dry and her stomach feel as if it were being put on a spin cycle.

"Oh god" Lydia exclaimed, her hand rushing to her mouth in shock, a small part of her hoping it would somehow quell the increasing feeling of nausea she was suffering. Hadn't one of Delia's earlier 'creations' included pieces of broken glass as a focal point? It certainly sounded like Delia's M.O, taking something that held high emotional attachment for her 'daughter' and twisting it into an abhorrent mockery of its former self, all without Lydia knowing it? Yeah that would be the ultimate one-up alright. Delia was always pulling shit like that, in a vindictive attempt to assert her dominance over her 'unruly' step-daughter. Yes this kind of thing was indicative of typical Delia behaviour, cold and bordering on emotional abuse.

Lydia slumped down upon the pile of clothes she had been feverishly sorting through, feeling pissed off and deflated. Things like that used to happen all the time, Delia's little _'Fuck You´_ moments really got under her skin to start with. However her dad tried his hardest to make the pair 'play nice' with each other, often going out of his way to avoid a topic of tension. Now she thought about it her father would do anything within his power to avoid conflict and that meant getting rid of various pieced from what Delia liked to call his 'former' life. Former as if he was a drug addict that had 'seen the light' and become re-born in the house of Delia.

Yes the vindictive bitch generally told him to burn, or destroy things, which her father obviously hated doing. So after a few heated arguments, the pair had come up with something of an uneasy compromise. Charles would give the offending items to a charity shop. It was something that Delia had considered a win-win situation on her part, she wouldn't be offended by certain things and giving vast pieces to charity would reflect kindly in her art career if you could even call it a career. Delia could often be found spouting some drivel about her being a great philanthropist even though Lydia doubted her step mother actually possessed a single generous bone in her body.

Yes, the whole thrift store option sounded plausible, more than plausible actually. The more she thought about it, the more Lydia resigned herself to spending fruitless hours rummaging through other people junk. Not that she had a problem with that, she liked going to antique fares and bric-a-brac sales because you could pick up some really interesting things there. Delia had always called it a 'disgusting and unsanitary' pass time, which was ironic considering that most of her so called art came from and then soon returned to the scrap heap.  
>Lydia liked looking at antiquary because of the object, whatever it was had real history behind it, a hidden story which one may never but that wasn't the point. The point of the things was that out of the history of the object Lydia would just be a little blip in its radar. She also loved the fact that no matter where these places where, there was always a box of old sepia dog eared and warn photos hidden in a corner. She loved to leaf through them and take the obscurely old photos and imagine how easy it would be to claim that crumpled photo in her hand was in fact depicting her grandparents wedding. It of course wasn't true but she liked that she could make up her own story about them. Every now and then a photo or two really stood out to her, this she would hastily buy and then take home to recreate in her next 'free' photo session.<p>

She sighed heavily, resting her head on the wood lined wall of the closet. "I'm sorry Mama, even if I had all the time in the world to look I doubt I would find it. It's probably not even intact whole let alone somewhere in this state". Lydia whispered to herself, leaving the tears of anger and loss to fall unscathed down her cheeks. "I'm so, so sorry I couldn't save this last part of you from _her_" she continued, the last word filled with years' worth of bitter resentment. She exhaled loudly and tilted her head back so she was staring up at the cracked, ceiling in a vain attempt quell the tears from falling. Her fingertips quickly swiped away the tear of sour defeat thereby slamming shut the gates to that particular painful memory, shutting the emotion safely back inside where she didn't have to deal with it.

As her watery vision cleared she couldn't help but notice a single white spider propel itself down from a crack in the ceiling with its almost invisible thread of web. She studied it for a few seconds as the spider stopped its decent and begun to quickly spin still suspended by a single thread. It was almost as if it was trapped in a cross wind yet there was no breeze in the stuffy little cupboard. It reminded Lydia of a lonely dancer pirouetting in the spotlight as it played out is solo for the entire world to see. It was a microscopic beauty, which she would have missed, had she been anywhere else in the house. As it was she had already missed the most striking quality about the creature. At first glances it was easy to mistake it to be white in colour, which was bizarre in itself. However upon closer examination it was evident that the spider was in fact covered with minute black stripes which broke up the white base in the most unusual way. Close up it was easy to see the fine striping however it was all but invisible to the naked eye so Lydia had no clue quite what she was missing. She felt the urge to get her camera and record the magnificent little dance, however she knew that any little movement she made, would change the air pressure in the closet and disturb the miniature artist. So she stayed still, holding her breath as much as she could as she watched the glistening black creature pirouette on its string and then just as suddenly as it has started the ballet ended. The spider swayed for a moment before climbing back up its safety rope and quickly disappeared back into the cracked ceiling.

"What the hell was that about" Lydia couldn't help but think to herself, the random act of beauty she had just witnessed was rather weird she had to admit. She had seen a lot of spiders in her time but she had never seen one like that before, she would have remembered if she had, the marking were quite something. She knew that spiders just don't do that sort of thing, they couldn't dance like that and even if they could, it was doubtful that they want too. Yet this spider could, did and probably would dance again and that was something she HAD get on film. She couldn't quite brush off the thought that there was some kind of meaning behind the macabre little dance. She knew it was just wishful thinking and that there had to be a rational reason for it somewhere, but in the mood she was in at the moment indulging in a little irrationality was needed. Things were so dead in the house now she was all on her own that even the slightest hint of something supernatural made her feel all tingly inside again. It was an odd feeling, but a good one and something she hadn't felt for quite a long time. Though she would never admit it out loud she had missed the feeling as it rushed through her body like electricity. She knew she would have to find that spider again and find out why it gave her such a violent reaction.

It was only just as she was about to head out of her room when a thought struck her. She had after all been talking to her mother and even if the woman couldn't contact her verbally then perhaps she could make her presence show in some other way. It wasn't too much of a stretch when she thought about it. "Yeah aright I get ya, you want me to follow…er the spider" she asked to the air but of course got no reply back. "Alice got a rabbit you know" she muttered, even though she quite preferred spiders as they were less wet and messy creatures. "So I'll go follow the white spider" she said in a slow and deliberate manner before leaving the room. She would follow the spider all right and unfortunately that meant going to the very top of the house, a place that had thus far stayed empty and locked. With a sigh she blocked out the mental anguish she might feel concerning that room in particular and instead concentrated on climbing the steps up to the attic.


End file.
